Improbability Drive
by Hoodoo
Summary: The A-Team, plus a multitude of different universes and fandoms. You want the crack? You can't handle the crack!
1. You Pesky Kids!

Disclaimer: no recognizable characters are mine. The A-Team is a combo of TV!verse and movie!verse, and not even I can totally tell which is which. Written for crack purposes only, and to get warring fractions out of my head.

Note: I've written a lot of fandoms. Repeat: A LOT. So what happens when they all get kind of mashed together? This ridiculousness. Oh, and honestly, there is one universe here I've never written for, but it was too perfect not to include.

Enjoy (?)

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><p><strong>You Pesky Kids!<strong>

Living with three other men could get tiresome. Whether it was personality clashes, petty annoyances, or just plain needing to get away from a certain someone(s) because 24/7 got to be too much, there were occasions when one of them called a time out.

They didn't necessarily all go their separate ways when they were taking a break. Even if Hannibal and B.A. wandered off alone, usually Face and Murdock stuck together.

Money makes the world go round. However, even if the infamous A-Team wasn't a quartet at the moment—they had orders to meet up again, eventually, there was always a plan—the members still needed something to live on.

A job was a job, in the end.

Murdock and Face got a short term, free-lance gig. It seemed innocuous enough: just some basic investigating work. Child's play, comparatively, especially when they were told they weren't allowed any guns. No weapons at all, and no lock picks. And it was at a weird location—an abandoned fairground? But whatever.

The group was nice, they provided the food, and they travelled by van. So it sort of felt familiar.

But that _dog._

No one had said anything about a dog originally, and Murdock fell in love immediately. The first night, after it was decided the best possible and _only_ course of action was to split up, the two of them camped out in the abandoned stables of the abandoned fairgrounds to watch and wait for whatever was haunting this place.

Murdock forwent his assignment and whispered to Face, "I want that dog, Facey! I need that dog!"

"I don't think Shaggy's going to let you take his dog, buddy," Face replied. He wished he'd insisted on bringing a pair of night-vision binoculars. Those weren't weapons. And they'd be a heck of a lot more helpful than the full moon overhead to see by. "Besides, you've got Billy. What's he gonna think if you just start bringing home other dogs?"

Murdock gave him a look like Face was the crazy one for not understanding. "Billy doesn't talk, Face."

"That dog doesn't talk either. It makes a bunch of tortured half-words. And it's a wimp. It could barely walk through this place without jumping into Shaggy's arms. How would it even survive with our lifestyle? Bombs and cars flipping and bullets ricocheting everywhere—it'd prob'ly die of a heart attack or something."

"Hmph," Murdock answered, with the obvious tone of a differing opinion.

Face gave up trying to keep a look out. Unless someone was going to walk by covered in glow-in-the-dark paint, it was too dark to see anything. He rolled onto his back.

"What do you think about the red-head? Daphne."

Murdock groaned. Face didn't think that was fair; he didn't groan when Murdock brought up_ his_ personal obsession.

"I think you'd better keep it in your pants."

"Hmph," he replied, with as much inflection in his voice as Murdock had previously.

* * *

><p>When the two called Hannibal and told him they wanted to meet up again earlier than planned, Hannibal didn't say anything.<p>

When they limped into the hotel room, he couldn't _not_ say anything.

"What happened to you?"

B.A. just took a look at them and guffawed.

"Shut up, B.A.!" Murdock whimpered, clutching at his chest dramatically. "My heart's been broken! It was love at first sight, and then my dreams were snatched away by a hippy with an eating disorder and thrown in the garbage disposal of life! I'll never love again! Now I only have Billy to comfort me, and he _doesn't talk!"_

Hannibal thought it best not to try and puzzle out the pilot's impassioned speech. He turned to Face and made a show of studying the huge black eye no amount of concealer was able to cover.

"And what about you?" he asked the conman, with exaggerated politeness.

"I never knew a guy in an ascot could punch so hard," Face replied dejectedly.

B.A. laughed and laughed.


	2. A Real American Hero

**A Real American Hero**

Hannibal studied the photograph of the masked Scotsman again closely, then closed the file and sighed silently to himself. He wished he could have a cigar, but too many of these offices were non-smoking nowadays.

"General, I want to thank you again for your amnesty during this visit," he said honestly.

The man sitting across the desk from him nodded.

"Typically, there is a bit of discussion between us regarding what offers we'll take," he continued, trying to remain as diplomatic as possible. "However, with this one—"

Hannibal tapped the front of the file meditatively.

"— I'm making an executive decision. This one we're going to have to turn down."

The general leaned slightly forward on the desk.

"If you're concerned about the possible legal consequences of such an arrangement—"

"No," Hannibal said immediately.

The general help up his hand; Hannibal dipped his head in contrite acknowledgement to a senior officer.

"—please be aware that my group has no interest in your team's past. The US Army has no true jurisdiction here. We tend to push the boundaries of legality ourselves, and regulations are a bit . . . lax."

"I'm aware, sir," Hannibal said with a smile. He liked this man, and in another life this would have been a dream offer.

"I'm sorry, General Hawk," he continued with regret in his voice. "I'm familiar with the terrorist activities Cobra participates in throughout the world, but sending us after a well-protected weapons' designer—one of their highest ranking members!—is akin to a suicide mission. No offense, sir."

The nod he received indicated no offense was taken. "You'd have the full support of this base and back-up by this unit as necessary."

It _was_ tempting . . .

Hannibal finally shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. As generous as your offer is, we've been rogue and working outside military protocols and procedures for too long to be comfortable doing it now. I hope you understand."

General Hawk nodded slowly. "You'd all be fine assets to the Joe team, Colonel, but I can respect your decision."

He stood and Hannibal copied the motion as the general came around the desk. Hannibal snapped his heels together and made to salute; General Hawk stopped him by holding his hand out for a handshake.

"Lax regulations," he said conspiratorially, and Hannibal grinned with him. "Care for a cigar?"

Hannibal accepted that offer gladly.


	3. Wibbly Wobbly, Timey Wimey Stuff

**Wibbly Wobbly, Timey Wimey Stuff**

"What_ is_ that noise? B.A., you working on something over there?"

"Nope."

"Murdock? What are you doing?"

"Nothing!"

That sounded suspicious, but when Murdock was found, he was proven to be telling the truth. The odd oscillating, pulling noise continued for a couple seconds more, then stopped.

"It sounded like it came from outside. I'm going to go check."

Because the rest of them were varying levels of curious and bored, they followed.

When the four of them exited the warehouse-cum-temporary-living-quarters, a large blue box was sitting near the side of the building.

"Huh. Colonel, I think my observation skills are pretty keen," B.A. said, "but I'm pretty sure that box wasn't there before."

"Nothing wrong with your eyesight," Hannibal replied without malice. "Unless we're all suffering the same delusion, that police box is new."

"Shared psychosis isn't unheard of, but it is uncommon," Murdock said to no one in particular. "It affects mainly close groups of people—of which we could be categorized—and typically stems from one dominate personality becoming the reality for the other members of the family or group. Typically it's just two people; a _folie à deux_. I guess more people could be involved, _folie à quatre _for us, or _folie à plusieurs_, maybe? But that's probably rarer."

None of the others paid much attention to him. Face asked Hannibal,

"A _what _box? What the hell is that thing?"

"A police box. It's an antiquated British thing. Like a phone booth here in the States."

"What the hell is an antiquated British police box doing outside?" Face asked, his tone slipping from something close to panicky to plain annoyance.

Hannibal shrugged.

The four looked at it for a moment. When a door on the side opened, three of them jumped back. Murdock didn't.

A tall, slender man wearing a pin-striped suit looked out, saw them watching him, and stepped out of the box.

"Hallo," he said pleasantly.

No one answered but Murdock, who raised his hand and said, "Hey."

The man took a ginger steps closer, looking at the ground and picking his way carefully. The team, sans Murdock, took equal steps back. As the man reached into his jacket, everyone tensed and two of the four team members reached for their concealed side-arms. The man saw their reactions and said quickly,

"Don't be alarmed! I'm just producing my badge—"

At the word 'badge' one of the remaining two reached for his gun as well.

The man quickly pulled a slim leather case from his inner pocket, and flashed its inside to the group.

"I'm just with the city. Warehouse inspection."

The group studied his credentials and relaxed.

Face spoke up. "I filed all the proper paperwork to lease this warehouse with the county clerk. Is there some type of problem?"

"No, no problem," the man replied easily. "I was just asked to drive by and make sure the lease-holders on file were the folks here."

Hannibal squinted suspiciously. "Since when do they allow British foreign nationals to work in county government offices?"

"Oh, I'm not British," he replied with a flippant grin. "But thank you! Everything looks in order here, gentlemen. I thank you for your time."

At the obvious dismissal, Hannibal, B.A. and Face glanced at each other, gave little half-shrugs, and walked back into the building. Face grumbled something about what was the use of going through proper channels if the proper channels didn't believe them anyway; Hannibal hushed him.

Murdock stayed where he was as if planted in the ground. He cocked his head and studied the man. "Warehouse inspector?"

He received a keen examination in return. "That's what the paper said."

"No it didn't."

The man's expression looked a combination of surprised and pleased. "Then what did it say?"

"It didn't say anything. It was just a mess of swirly colors."

The man laughed aloud. "Brilliant!"

He didn't seem to want to add anything else regarding the paper, so Murdock abandoned the line of thought.

"You're also not wearing any shoes."

"You've got sharp eyes!" replied the man. He acted delighted by this as well. "You're correct. I have . . . misplaced mine. Well, they were stolen, really."

"That's awful! Sorry."

He looked rueful. "It's a long, complicated story. I happened to notice, as well, that you're wearing a pair of trainers very similar to the ones I had . . . "

"What, these old chucks? I've got a million pairs." Murdock cocked his head the other way, nodded once to himself, and offered, "Here. Take them."

He stooped down to untie and pull his shoes off. He stood in mismatched socks in the gravel, and handed them to the man.

They were taken gratefully. "This is a truly generous gesture."

Murdock shrugged. "You're welcome."

The man tugged the Converse on, left the laces untied and stood back up.

"Well! I was thinking I should chase the thieves to the ends of the universe for my shoes, but thanks to you, my Good Samaritan, I can just go off and relax a little bit. Of course, trouble seems to find me wherever I go . . . or maybe it tags along behind, and occasionally catches up."

Murdock nodded sagely. "That happens to us too."

"Good day and good luck, then. I appreciate the plimsolls."

"Welcome. See ya."

Both men turned and walked away from each other. Before Murdock got to the door of the warehouse, the peculiar rolling sound filled the air again. He looked over his shoulder, but wasn't surprised that the man and the blue box were gone. He went into the warehouse.

"Finished talkin' to that inspector, fool?" B.A. asked as he came through the door. "Just weird, is what that was. Face ain't nothing if not OCD on the paperwork for these places—hey, where are your shoes, man?"

Murdock jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating to the outside.

B.A. processed the gesture. "You just gave that guy your shoes? What kind of weird ass thing is that?"

Shrugging, Murdock answered as if it was the most logical thing in the world, "He needed a pair of shoes."

The black man wrinkled his lip in non-comprehension, and mumbled to himself about crazy fools handin' articles of clothing to complete strangers, and even crazier strangers accepting them. He gave up trying to understand and shook his head, as Murdock went off to hunt down another pair of shoes.


	4. Oh crap

**Oh crap . . .**

Why couldn't Hannibal carry his own cigars? Did he lose some bet that: a.) was so long ago it disappeared in the fuzziness of old memories, +/- b.) he'd been so drunk on local booze the resulting black out created an amnesia for the specific reason he toted around a cigar case in his front pocket?

And don't forget Hannibal calling for one whenever and wherever. In the van, in a hotel room (it was harder and harder to find one that allowed smoking nowadays), just walking down the street.

Like right now.

Face sighed as Hannibal asked again, politely. At least he was always polite. But man, B.A. and Murdock were already two blocks ahead and still moving fast. He was _not_ going to lose that stupid "one-two-three-not-it!" crap that they somehow decided on to determine sleeping arrangements and have to sleep on the floor of that disgusting motel again.

But Hannibal was insistent, so, obediently he stopped and reached into his pocket. The Boss took the offering and smiled around it as he cupped his hands to light it, then started down the street again.

Face tucked the cigar case away again and began to follow.

A deep voice from the alleyway called,

"Hey buddy—can I bum a smoke?"

Face knew he shouldn't look, shouldn't turn and make any kind of contact with whoever was in that darkened space between the two buildings. Sometimes, though, his mouth was too far ahead of his brain for its own good.

"No," he replied.

"Aw, come on, man. You got a whole pack there. Please?"

Face sighed again. What was it about deep-voiced, authoritative men who were polite? And the stupid race with his stupid teammates was a bust now, so—

"Fine," he grudgingly agreed.

He pulled the case out again and removed a cigar. He held it out.

"Uh . . . sorry man. You're gonna have to bring it here."

Oh, _seriously?_

But if this was some sort of trap, Face decided, it was the most ridiculous one ever.

Then, with final sigh, his next thought was, in for penny, in for a pound . . .

He walked into the alley.

* * *

><p>He would never, never admit it, but Face sometimes picked up the comic books Murdock left laying around. He'd say he read them because there was very little else to read on the run, minus Hannibal's war novels, of course. Comics were easy to transport, quick to read, and could, in a pinch, be used as kindling.<p>

That's why, due to his passing familiarity with the medium, he was startled but knew instantly who beckoned him over.

"Hellboy," he gaped.

"The one and only." The demon picked the forgotten cigar from Face's hand. He bit the end off and spit it on the ground. "You must read the comic books, huh?"

"I, uh . . . well—"

"I hate 'em. They never get my eyes right. You got a light?"

"Uh . . . yeah. Yeah."

Face patted his pockets and eventually located a lighter and a couple of cedar spills.

"Cedar? That's awesome, man. You're a prepared man of the world."

"Gotta light a good cigar with cedar," Face heard himself saying.

Hellboy nodded, then watched Face to hold the flame to the spill until it lit. He offered it up to the huge demon, but the wind was sharper here between the buildings and it took both of them cupping their hands around it to protect it as Hellboy toked and finally got the cigar going.

"Thanks, man," he said sincerely. "I appreciate it."

Face nodded. It was nothing.

"Listen, I gotta run. And you better too, if you wanna catch up to your buddies."

With the absurdity of the past few minutes, Face could barely remember who his buddies were, let alone why he needed to catch up to them.

But as Hellboy clapped him on the shoulder in thanks—staggering him, that Right Hand of Doom was _heavy—_and turned away, Face's brain started coming around again. He watched the demon get to the end of the alley and scale the fire escape there, cigar wedged in his teeth, and disappear over the top of the building.

He should catch up to everyone else. They probably wondered where he was, and he suddenly remembered he had a very good reason to not be the last back to the hotel—

"Oh crap!" Face cried a loud, clenching a fist. If he'd only been able to think a little quicker, he would have had a bargaining chip that he was sure Murdock would have traded _any_ bed for. "I should've gotten an autograph!"


	5. More Than Meets The Eye

**More Than Meets The Eye**

It would be pretty cool, B.A. thought.

In a rare situation of common interest, he and Murdock had gone to the movies. He, because like all red-blooded American males, sometimes he just wanted to watch shit blow up, and improbably beautiful and improbably _clean_ women run around while it was happening. Murdock went because, of course, he had all the toys.

B.A. wished he could complete "he had all the toys" with "as a kid", but that was a blatant lie.

But as ridiculous as the storyline was, and the plot holes, and the inaccuracies, it would be pretty cool if his van could change into a robot.

All the fire power, all the instant data that would be available, never having to worry about it taking care of itself if he had to leave it behind because of a mission that logistics didn't allow a full-sized van along . . .

And it would have a cool name.

Like Nighthawk or Vorath or Runamuck or something. Yeah, that'd be awesome—

"Hey B.A.!" Murdock said, breaking through his internal dialogue with an excited but thoughtful tone. "Know what I was thinking? How it'd be neat if your van was a Transformer!"

B.A. stunted a groan. The _one _time he was having non-rational, a little off-kilter thoughts, Murdock had to channel it and come up with the _exact same thing—_

"But then I was thinking, you know, all the modifications you've had to make to this old girl. You know, building that gun safe in the back, adding all the communications equipment and that little closet where Hannibal stores some of his disguises and Face stores his shampoos, bolting down some rifle mounts to the floor—remember that?—and all the touch-ups and body work and paint jobs you've done over and over and over . . . well, I was thinking this van is pretty much a Transformer anyway! It'd be an Autobot, of course, because we're the good guys—"

"Shut up, fool," B.A. replied, but his typical gruffness wasn't there. As much as he hated to admit it, Murdock had a fine point.


End file.
